NeverHaveIEver
by bringmeadragon
Summary: Siobhan Hawke questions her abilities post-battle... and must navigate a much different situation upon coming home. A short story of lust, self-reflection, and drinking games.


Author's note: Hey, look! I actually **wrote** something, rather than lurk in forums and imagine things.

Eventually, I hope to chronicle the notable points in my Dragon Age 2 Character's life, potentially as a longer story... so maybe one day this will be a portion of something more. But for now, it's more of a one-off. Very unfinished, I realize. I hope it's still understandable.

This is the first creative writing I've done in years... as well as my first time attempting Dragon Age fanfiction. So, be gentle. ;)

Oh, and "Siobhan" sounds like of like "Shee-vahn", like Chevonne, only not.

* * *

><p>Siobhan Hawke could not remember a time that it pained her so much to walk. She was a hardy Ferelden, a bonafide rogue, the Champion of Kirkwall; ensnarer of men and master of wit and, as of today, <em>slayer of dragons<em>. Most importantly, she was a Hawke. Generally speaking no number of sleepless nights, nor grueling battles, nor dark memories could keep her from relishing in her mobility.

Today, however, was not general.

Hawke focused on the cobblestones in front of her as she forced one foot in front of another, gritting her teeth at the pain that shot through her calves with each movement. The dull throbbing that had gripped her thighs since she began the trek upward from Darktown had long since grown to a consistent ache, which had in turn become so intense that she ceased feeling it altogether. But they were the only ones. Every other muscle, every tendon, every bone in her body seemed to scream out with each movement, and she found herself unable to enjoy the last crimson sunrays bathing Hightown. Even the looks of distaste her unusual appearance cultivated did nothing to lift her spirits.

Instead of her usual armour Hawke had chosen to wear black leather pants and a shirt of the deepest violet she'd ever seen; sleeveless so as to show off the markings that wound their way up her arms, creeping across her chest and up her neck to end with an intricate facial tattoo reminiscent of wings. She looked fearsome, but she might as well have been rushing to battle in a wedding dress for the lot of good that did her. Going to the Bone Pit had not been planned, and a catastrophe of that magnitude had _certainly_ not been planned – who could possibly have foreseen a dragon? – though Hawke could admit now that she should have taken time to prepare. But she'd had her weapons and she'd had her friends, so jumping into action on the spot had seemed like great idea. Swing by her house and change? _Why bother!_ Find a ranged weapon? _To the void with that_! Now her clothing was ripped to shreds and stained with blood; gore matted her hair and the stench of medicinal herbs trailed her like a persistent suitor.

As Hawke cut across a beautifully maintained courtyard – all the while cursing everything from its glistening fountain to its Maker-damned Orlesian shrubberies – she realized that she really hadn't the faintest clue why she felt so horrendous. Sure, she'd taken quite a beating, but Hawke was certain that she'd been through far worse. It bit at her pride to think that she was capable of having an "off" day, let alone such an off day that the very cells of her body seemed to be holding a rather violent revolution. Certainly there were things one could attribute to the painful ordeal; such as her poorly chosen clothing, or her inexplicable refusal to use a long-range weapon against the beast, or the presence of two mages (albeit tolerable ones, but mages still). And then there was the fact that her family was… gone. And she'd probably been in Kirkwall for too long – four, five years? _Blast_, she thought. Her body and skills had been honed over the years, but what happened to the raw energy underneath? Hawke didn't want to think that five years of hard work and even harder play could have a negative effect on her stamina, but there it was.

When she finally reached the Amell estate Hawke nearly cried with relief. If the walk from the clinic – also the abode of Anders, a mage who on most days Hawke considered a friend – had been difficult, being alone with her increasingly dark thoughts had been unbearable. With the prospect of hiding at home before her Hawke's mood had increased to merely irritable. She wanted nothing more than to take off her ruined clothes, wash away the stench of medicine (and magic – no matter what people say, she was convinced it had a distinctly horrible smell), and be in the company of people who would shower her with sympathy.

It took three tries to get the doorknob to turn properly, but when it finally gave Hawke balked at the prospect of raising her agonizingly sore arms. After a moment's contemplation she slumped sideways and pushed the door open with her shoulder, letting loose a gut-wrenching groan more befitting of an abomination than a woman.

"Bodha-a-a-a-n I'm _dying_!" She laboriously kicked off her filthy boots and shrugged her dagger holsters off, letting the filthy bundle fall to the parquet floor. Her shoulders, her neck, even her abs protested at the movement. The dwarf's head poked out from the parlour, panic turning quickly to befuddlement as he took in his noticeably living employer. He lifted his hand as if to speak as Hawke shuffled past him and flung herself upon the nearby chaise, writhing and shutting her eyes.

"Save your goodbyes, sweet dwarf! Hold my memory close to your heart when you flee the dank confines of Kirkwall once and for all, having grand adventures while I rot in the bloody Amell mausoleum, leaving behind nothing but grief ridden songs of a glorious hero gone too soon, tragically wrenched from the bosom of the earth –"

"I'll be sure to add "bosom of the earth" to your eulogy." Hawke started at the voice, somehow filled with sarcasm and intoxicating music all at once. She stopped her writhing—although it was quite _good_ writhing, very dramatic—and reluctantly opened her eyes. A silver-haired elf with faintly glowing tattoos peered down at her, wearing an expression of utter amusement. Fenris. Hawke noted to her dismay that he looked no worse for wear after the day's ordeal – actually, he looked quite handsome from Hawke's vantage point. She scowled and raised her head to see Bodhan bouncing agitatedly at the foot of the chaise, glancing between the elf and the human as if he couldn't decide whose presence to address first.

"Serrah, I mean to tell you – what I was trying to say, you have a visitor!" He bowed at the waist and gestured quite needlessly to the elf, who offered a faint smirk in response. Bodhan made a move to approach her, stopped, and then wrung his hands. "You don't truly think you're on the deathbed, do you? I mean you look –hmm… are you in need of a healer? Should I send for Anders?"

Hawke sat up and composed herself in a more 'effortlessly casual' sort of way, crossing her legs forcing her protesting arm to drape across the back of the chaise. She flashed a radiant smile. "No need, my good man! I may have been wounded beyond comprehension of any average mortal, yet to I the agony is mere annoyance, the axe man's strike but a flesh wound –"

"She's been to the mage's." Fenris reassured the anxious dwarf, although distaste at the mention of Anders rang through. He reached up and pulled the claymore from its sheath across his back and gestured to Sandal, who'd been watching the whole exchange with a mixture of concern and affable boredom. "This blade is fine, but I'd be much obliged if your son could find some way to improve it."

Sandal brightened instantly. "Enchantment?" Fenris offered him the hilt.

"Enchantment!" The young dwarf grabbed the sword and hurried off. Bodhan peered after him warily.

"I'll be sure to compensate you both." Though Fenris seemed perfectly confident Hawke doubted he would deign to use a blade altered by magic. However, she did not doubt that he'd thank both of the dwarves graciously, even if it DID end up stashed in some abandoned room.

"Marvelous!" Bodhan clapped and smiled, although an uncharacteristic awkwardness still lingered in his face. "We'll be in the study!"

"Maker, he really does think I'm dying, doesn't he?" Hawke grinned once the dwarf had left, shifting over to make room for her visitor and giving the cushion a good pat – which she quickly regretted. She winced at the pain and cursed at herself as Fenris settled beside her. "Ugh, perhaps I really am on my deathbed."

"No, just crazy." Their interactions had long since been characterized by jests and jibes, though the elf's grin slipped from his lips as he watched her gingerly rub her arms, testing the amount of pain it would cause her to try and knead some of the kinks out of the muscles. Hawke became suddenly conscious of the swollen bruises latticing across her skin, and the great matt of blood-soaked hair from the gash Anders had stitched up. "You're truly hurt, aren't you? What happened?"

Hawke snorted. "A _dragon_, that's what happened. You were there – or at least I could have sworn a great white glowing elf was hacking away at it with us, but then again there are so many people in this city bearing your likeness that I can't really know can I?"

"You're right; I was there, so I know that it was practically a kitten compared to half the things you've killed." Fenris had the sense to lift his hand as he said it, effectively swatting away Hawke's inevitable smack. She groaned again and settled for making a rude gesture instead. Fenris ignored it as he continued, "in fact it's rather a letdown that you'd find yourself "dying" after such a mediocre battle."

"We fought a dragon. I _slayed a dragon_. With nothing but a pair of daggers, mind you! If I'd known you would have been so difficult to impress I would have done it naked with my feet bound while reciting Qunari poetry."

Fenris ignored her remarks and studied Hawke in such a way that made her feel translucent. She never quite knew how to act when he failed to uphold their usual charade. "You weren't yourself."

"Well, not all of us have the strength of a god and the stamina of a well-rested badger." Hawke tried not to let her shame seem evident as she struggled to strip off her gloves. She managed to fling them at Fenris without moving much more than her wrist, but even that smarted. She wished she'd accepted Anders' offer to soothe her aching muscles magically, but at the time she decided she'd much rather bear the discomfort of healing naturally than let herself be touched with magic when it didn't seem entirely necessary. Or so she'd thought.

"I'm not a god, or a badger. You just moan." Fenris leaned over and pushed the dark hair from her forehead to inspect the neat row of stitches along her temple. Her skin tingled from his touch long after he removed his hand. "Where does it hurt?"

Hawke sighed. "Everywhere –well, except for the cuts that Anders put some numbing salve on, those are fine. But my muscles – every muscle in my body hurts." She was agonizingly conscious of Fenris' gaze tracking across her body. "This is the last time I'm helping anyone ever again, I swear on Andraste's areolas."

"I highly doubt that. And besides, it's YOUR mine." Fenris's tone was serious, but his expression was strangely soft. "I wish there were something I could do to take it away."

Maybe it was the after-effects of her healing making her loopy, or she'd grown lightheaded from her walk-from-hell. Whatever the case, Hawke knew what she did next was stupid; she knew that she would never be able to forgive herself for jamming her foot into her giant maw _yet again_. But the instinct to be a great flaming shithead was far too strong to ignore. She flashed a wicked grin in his direction, raising her eyebrows and leaning forward suggestively. "Well in THAT case, there is one thing that's known to be a fantastic muscle relaxant…"

She heard Fenris' breath catch, but to her surprise he didn't back away. "I can't." He breathed, locking his forest green eyes with her foggy silver ones. Hawke felt a blush creep up her neck, but forced out a convincing laugh and slipped into her usual jesting tone.

"You don't need to take it so seriously, I was simply offering what I would to any strapping young lad – or woman, for that matter. You just happened to be the nearest one!"

The elf didn't look convinced, yet still he didn't move away. Instead he slowly brought his hands to her bare arms, his touch so light she hardly felt it. Hawke was at a loss for what to do, so stayed still as if any movement on her part would cause the moment to shatter into oblivion. With great care Fenris rubbed his calloused hands over her skin, following the contours of her muscles with a tenderness that made her forget about her pains entirely. Suddenly finding it too difficult to watch his movements she instead stared at her hands resting in her lap. Time began to slow. It was all Hawke could do to keep her breathing even. Her whole body tingled and she felt as if she was burning up and being caressed by a cool autumn breeze all at once.

"Siobhan." Fenris breathed. Her given name sounded like an oath from his lips, his deep honeyed voice drawing it out like poetry. Hawke slowly brought her eyes up. She met his gaze briefly but had to look down at his cheeks instead; for suddenly his face was much, much closer to her own. It seemed then as if time had stopped entirely. She raked her mind for something witty to say, anything at all to say, but found that she couldn't so much as breathe. The moment was dragging on too long, she had to be misinterpreting this but the hope was so STRONG, he was so close that she could feel the warmth emanating from his body-

Then his lips met hers.

She'd forgotten how soft his mouth was, how sweet he tasted – intoxicatingly like vanilla, or ice-wine. She trembled, too shocked to do anything but yield. He kissed her so softly, as if she were something precious, something that could be broken. The tenderness in the gesture was something entirely alien to Hawke, and it made her chest ache and her eyes feel as if they were about to weep. Her lips tingled as if thousands of tiny snowflakes were landing upon them; she was instantly and absurdly reminded of Ferelden, how the first snow would drift timidly downward, evaporating in the warm air before it could reach the ground. For one pure moment, Hawke basked in the feeling of home.

And then she kissed him back.

She met his lips indulgently, parting them to seek out his warm breath. Hawke shivered as he ran his hands down her aching sides, the skin beneath her torn shirt singing at the touch. He kissed her harder, more hungrily. As if outside of her control her hand reached out and grasped his chest, drawing him closer. Fenris let out a small gasp as she moved her mouth against his, gently sucking his bottom lip. His hands moved to her neck, intertwining with her hair and she melted into him, their kisses growing hungrier. Suddenly ages –no, _years_ of something more than simple desire, of a deep-seated yearning that had seeped into every fibre of her body – was released in a flood of sensations. She was at once overcome with a burning for more and for less, for the sensation of his mouth against hers, the flutter of his eyelashes against his cheek. She hadn't realized how much she'd wanted him, the balm of his company for so long having soothed the growing need within her.

Fenris tensed beneath her touch, emitting a soft, low pant with each movement of her hands. Hawke groaned as his tongue pushed through her lips and pressed herself against him, shifting so she could kneel on the chaise and run her hand down his midriff, the small of her back alight with pleasure as his hand found it to draw her closer, closer; their sounds becoming more guttural as she found where his pants met his shirt and slipped her finders under it, pushing her hand up to trace the shape of his stomach –

Suddenly Fenris broke their embrace and jerked away, gasping. Hawke snatched her hand back as if from hot brazier and stood, the pain that shot through her legs a cold reminder of reality. She couldn't take her eyes off him as he visibly withdrew, staring shocked at a spot on her wall. Hawke imagined she could see the invisible chinks of armour sliding back into place, the metaphorical protective spikes he surrounded himself with springing from their joints. They were both breathing heavily, and Hawke felt queerly as if someone had nudged time back into place. She struggled to catch her breath as Fenris turned toward her and stared, face leaden with what looked uncomfortably like dread.

He kept looking as if he were about to speak, before stopping himself, more and more horror and agony seeping into his expression. Hawke wanted to comfort him, to find some way to make it right, but she knew it would only worsen things. She stood before him, fidgeting; meeting his gaze in a way she hoped conveyed what she felt. Slowly Fenris adopted the irritating expression that Hawke knew was always a prelude to something she wouldn't like. "Siobhan –"

"Stop!" She shouted before she could help herself, her voice echoing throughout the parlour. Hawke snapped her mouth shut with surprise, looking around the room as if to find some other source for which she could blame the outburst on. The shout had slipped past her lips before she had a chance to even consider what she was doing, but the command was just as much for her pounding heart as it was Fenris. Her heart didn't listen; Fenris did. He looked truly rattled, his mouth hanging open in confusion. With a stab of embarrassment – _she'd never been embarrassed before, why should she suddenly develop the emotion now? _– Hawke realized that she'd always been so conscious of his past as a slave that she'd never presumed to boss Fenris around, not even in jest.

Well, at least she'd gotten his attention.

Hawke cleared her throat. "Before you say something completely and utterly angst-ridden…" She paused, unsure of what she'd been about to say before rambling on. "I don't regret this, and don't say anything to change that or so help me Maker I'll make you think what I did to that dragon was downright pleasant. But I – I need a drink."

Fenris sat there looking flabbergasted for a long moment, but when he looked about to say something again Hawke motored on – this interrupting thing really was becoming a habit, wasn't it? – "I mean, I REALLY need a drink. A good, stiff- "- perhaps not the _best_ choice of words – "ahem. _Cold_ drink."

Fenris appeared to have given up any hope of reasoning with her and instead adjusted his shirt, looking thoroughly unimpressed but blessedly not saying anything.

"The Hanged Man is the optimal place to acquire such a nice, cold drink that has the wonderful advantage of encouraging a person forget the events of an evening and instead focus on – " Hawke gestured agitatedly – "you know, camaraderie. Morale. Friendship! And while we know it's unhealthy to consume such a drink all by your onesies, it would simply be unfair to permit Varric to be taken advantage of by Isabella and me in Never-Have-I-Ever."

The elf – _Maker he was beautiful_, Hawke thought painfully – couldn't have looked more taken aback if Hawke had suddenly announced she was a pregnant darkspawn and dropped on one knee to propose. The expression he wore was so priceless that Hawke found a smile creeping across her face, laughter suddenly bubbling up her throat. Any tenseness she'd felt, any hint of discomfort melted away until she simply felt the happiness she always did in his presence.

Fenris slowly rose and stood before her. He studied her, appearing all the while to be searching for some indication of duress – like Anders did every time he thought she might be concussed. Finally he sighed – a great, heavy noise – and spoke.

"You mean to tell me that _you_ want," he pointedly looked her up and down, from her filthy feet right up to her blood-matted hair, "to go to a tavern."

Hawke nodded enthusiastically. "Finally, he listens!"

Fenris rubbed his eyes and began to pace. "Fifteen minutes ago you were "dying", five minutes ago we were –"he fumbled and gestured toward the chaise, "-there, and your grand solution to the entire situation is to go to a tavern and play drinking games with a pirate and a dwarf?"

"Yes." Hawke grinned and slid in front of him, putting an end to his pacing. "Or would you prefer instead to wallow in our mutually unfortunate situation? Perhaps write some sorrow-leaden poetry? Sing a song? Cut ourselves?"

The elf looked utterly defeated. "What on earth is Never-Have-I-Ever?"

"I thought you'd never ask!" Hawke clapped her hands together. "Each party tries to trick the others into taking a drink for every statement the speaker makes that are true for the others. It's like, so, never have I ever helped take down a dragon. See, you'd drink, but they wouldn't. Because they weren't there."

"I… see." Hawke doubted Fenris grasped what she was getting at. "So?"

"So," she continued, "Placing Isabella, Varric and I around a table and doing that means even the most outlandish statements will be unanimously true. Make two of those lovely participants devastatingly cunning women… and we'd trick Varric into drinking himself under the table. Well, more under the table. "

Fenris still didn't look convinced. Hawke pushed on, "And it would be rather unfair to knowingly allow us to take advantage of such a stand-up citizen, wouldn't it? He'd need to have someone present with goals apart from getting him to drink every vile thing the Hanged Man could possibly offer."

She grinned and positioned herself in what she hoped looked like a stance of astounding confidence. After a long moment Fenris relented, shaking his head. "_Venhedis_, you should have been a politician instead of – whatever it is you call yourself. Never have I ever let you drag me to a den of vomit and sour ale."

Hawke led him to the entrance hall, stooping to pick up her discarded weapons. "Never have I ever forgotten to add the Hanged Man's sweet perfume of desperation."

"Never have I ever regretted playing in to one of your "genius" plans." Fenris held the door as Hawke quickly strapped on her boots.

"Never have I ever had the gall to take advantage of a poor unsuspecting man in the middle of my parlour – "

She stood right as the door nearly slammed on her toes, the elf striding briskly away. Hawke laughed and hurried after, slipping on the damp cobblestones as if she'd just awoken from a fitful sleep, eager to let the memory of somber dreams fade away.


End file.
